Jack Lark: Rogue

by Paul Fraser Collard

  She whooped at the bravado. ‘Aye, aye. Well, as sure as eggs is eggs you don’t want him to find out you ain’t been here all evening. I sent you out on a bleeding errand and you disappear. I had to get Mary to help me.’

  ‘She don’t mind. Saves her spending the night on her back.’ Jack strutted past, his thumbs looped into the top of his trousers.

  ‘Listen to you.’ His mother was wiping glasses, the cloth moving quickly in practised motion. Her face was flushed, her wide cheeks crimson from the hard work. She bustled over to Jack, her cloth dropping to wipe at the great slab of mahogany that was her bar. ‘You won’t be so cocky when he finds out.’

  ‘Are you going to blab on me then, Ma?’ Jack came and leant on the bar near where his mother was working. He loomed over her, but there was no doubt who was in charge.

  She leant forward and grabbed his cheek between her thumb and forefinger. ‘If he asks me, then I ain’t going to lie to him.’

  Jack pulled his head back, scowling at her lack of support. ‘He knows. He saw me. He did this.’ He inclined his head to show her his eye. ‘But it don’t hurt. He hits like a girl.’

  ‘You damn fool.’ Jack’s mother shook her head at her son’s foolishness. There was no sympathy.

  ‘More fool you for having the brute in your bed.’ Jack’s pleasure at his success was waning. The pain of the beating was starting to take hold and his mother’s words had added to his store of hurt.

  ‘And where would we be without him? Do you ever stop to think about that, Jack?’

  ‘We’d be a damn sight happier, I reckon.’

  ‘We’d be out on the bloody street, too.’ Her brow furrowed at her son’s fecklessness. ‘You reckon I could keep this place with no man around? Why, I’d be out on my ear soon as the first cove took a fancy to having the place for hisself.’

  ‘So you took one into your bed.’ Jack swayed back as his mother’s cloth darted at his face before returning to the surface of the bar.

  ‘I kept your sorry backside safe. You should be bloody grateful.’

  ‘He took the place, Ma. He just kept you too.’

  His mother scowled. ‘You know nothing about it.’

  ‘I know he don’t like me.’

  ‘Then you should do as he bloody says.’

  ‘I ain’t no lickspittle, Ma.’

  ‘No, you’re a bloody fool.’ She walked to the far side of the bar. ‘And you’re going to be a busy fool now. There’s a puddle of piss in the salon, and I think old man Kent is still in there; he’s too big for me to turf out. Get him gone, then clean up. Then I need some barrels shifted.’

  Jack sighed and moved off towards the scullery to fetch the mop and bucket. He refused to be downcast. He had the coins in his pocket and he had his plan for their use. A few hours’ work meant little compared to the pleasure that was in store for him.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Hold still.’

  ‘It bloody hurts.’

  ‘Course it hurts.’ The girl’s fingers moved quickly as she removed the bandage. ‘Cor, those bruises don’t look pretty.’

  ‘That ain’t surprising.’ Jack scowled as he looked down at his ribs. ‘The old bastard kicked me at least a dozen times.’

  ‘More fool you for getting caught.’

  Jack laughed, wincing as it set his ribs on fire. ‘Fair enough, Mary. I know it’s my own fault. But it don’t make it hurt any less.’

  ‘What were you thinking, Jack? Your guv’nor ain’t never going to take kindly to you tailing him to one of his fights.’

  ‘He ain’t my guv’nor. And why shouldn’t I? My money is as good as anyone’s.’

  ‘You’re a fucking fool if you believe that, Jack.’

  ‘I ain’t no fool.’ Jack’s pride was hurting almost as much as his ribs and his face. But Mary’s hands were warm and gentle, and he leaned back and let her dab on the ointment she had brought with her. Girls like Mary knew all about bruises, about taking a punch.

  ‘Of course you’re a fool, Jack. You’re a boy, ain’t you?’ Mary smiled and reached forward to squeeze his cheek.

  Jack felt the flush as her fingers touched his face. ‘I wish you didn’t think of me as a boy.’

  Mary sat back and whooped, her laughter quick and infectious. ‘Aye, there you go, you randy little sod. I ain’t letting you take a turn, no matter how many times you turn those puppy eyes on me. I’ve known you since you was a nipper. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘I can pay.’ Jack whispered the words, trying to hide his hope. It would have been worth taking a beating if it led to an hour in Mary’s bed. He had the money thanks to Tom Pullen’s bitch. Mary was the prize he had been after.

  Mary just shook her head. ‘You’ve got it bad. What about Sophia? You were keen enough last time. She’s a good girl. Clean, too.’

  Jack looked away, ashamed of the expression that must be on his face. Sophia was younger than him. She looked so fragile that a strong wind could blow her away. She did not compare to Mary.

  ‘She’s too young.’

  ‘It didn’t stop you last time.’

  ‘I don’t want Sophia.’

  ‘Well you can’t have me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jack heard the wheedling tone in his voice and hated himself for it. But he could not help it. Mary was beautiful. Her hair was clean and she had meat on her bones. She was a rare beauty and men were driven mad by their need for her. It allowed her to be choosy, to earn more than the other girls, who would be happy to dispense a tuppenny upright for any man with the coins in their pocket.

  ‘Because you’re too young.’

  ‘I’m old enough. Why, you ain’t more than a couple of years older than me.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but it’s still a no.’ Mary leaned forward, then snorted in a very unladylike manner. She had spotted Jack’s gaze drop below her face as her dress gaped open, and she shook her head at the lust she had seen in his eyes. ‘I’ll ask Sophia to come to you.’

  Jack turned his face away, hiding his shame. He said nothing more as Mary finished applying the last of the ointment, then bound his bandage tight. But he could not help but smile when she turned his head around and planted a kiss smack on the centre of his forehead.

  ‘Thank you.’ He reached out and took her hand in his own. ‘Thank you for looking after me, Mary.’

  Mary laughed. It was a good sound, and Jack felt a smile appear on his face, despite his disappointment.

  ‘We’ve got to stick together, you and me. If we don’t, then there ain’t no one else who’ll look out for us. Besides, you’d look after me, wouldn’t you, Jack? If the tables were turned?’

  Jack nodded, his breath catching in his throat as he drank in Mary’s presence. He would look after her whether she let him have his way or not.

  He leant forward and laid his head on her chest, in the way he’d done for as long as he could remember. He breathed in her scent, savouring being so close to her whilst he could. It may not have been quite what he had hoped for but it was good enough.

  ‘My eye! Why it’s young Mud Lark himself come to serve us! Come sit yourself down here, Jack-o, spend a minute with me and the lads.’

  ‘Good evening, Sergeant Tate.’ Jack bobbed his head as he walked towards the recruiting sergeant, who had taken his usual seat in the saloon.

  ‘My eye we are formal tonight.’ Tate threw back his head and guffawed at Jack’s choice of greeting. The sergeant was holding court to three young lads who were drinking their gin as quick as Jack could refill their glasses. They knew the score as well as the sergeant, who had recruited dozens of men in the gin palace. ‘You going to make me a happy man and take the Queen’s shilling tonight, Jack-o?’

  ‘Not tonight, Sergeant.’ Jack set down the four fresh half-quarts before collecting the empties.

  Sergeant Tate watched him carefully. ‘I want my guinea for bringing you in, Jack-o. You and I both know it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jack
could not hold back the hint of longing in his voice. Sergeant Tate visited the ginny at least once a month. Jack had been taken for as long as he could remember with the flowing red, blue and white ribbons that hung from his undress hat, and with his fabulous scarlet tunic. Tate wore his uniform well. His barrel chest filled the tight-fighting coat so that the crimson sash across its front was stretched tight and the sleeves with their bright gold chevrons bulged over his strong arms. But Jack had never seen the sergeant look to use his formidable physique. He greeted all comers with a smile and a laugh, and he was quick to offer a drink and an ear to any who wanted to spend time in his company.

  ‘Maybe, indeed.’ Tate puffed out his cheeks in mock disappointment. ‘Now listen well, lads.’ He leant forward and spoke to the three boys drinking his gin. ‘Young Jack here is missing a trick. I reckon he has a taste for adventure but he is too damn timid. Not like you sensible fellows. You know what you want. That’s why you will be taking the Queen’s shilling, isn’t that right?’

  The three lads drank their gin and kept silent. They knew the trade they were making. Life in the rookeries of Whitechapel offered them precious little. Tate was promising a shilling and a penny a day, two good meals, a clean bed, a smart uniform and a daily ration of rum. To the lads of Whitechapel it sounded like heaven. They had no need of any of his blarney.

  Tate was good at his job. He knew he had the three lads; that they were just biding their time and drinking as much gin as he would care to buy before they came with him to the barracks. But he wanted a couple more, and he had spied a thin-faced boy loitering in the corner who was listening to his every word. Four recruits would make for a good day’s work. So the sergeant lifted his glass and gestured at Jack, speaking loudly enough for the thin-faced boy to hear every word.

  ‘Hark on this, Jack-o, and see what you’re missing. When I was in India, I learnt what it meant to be a soldier.’ Tate sat back in his chair, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he delved into his memories. ‘And I learnt it the hard way: on the battlefield, no less. Now, them Sikh boys, why, they know what they’re about and no mistake. They were hard battles but we won ’em, we won ’em all. And afterwards, we had a rare old time. You lads ain’t seen nothing till you see the inside of one of them Sikh palaces.’

  Tate paused, glancing across to make sure the thin-faced boy was still listening before he carried on. ‘We made off with so much loot that day that the boys were dropping dozens of these silver coins ’cos they couldn’t carry them all. Can you imagine that? Tossing away silver coins as big as your hand just because you ain’t got room! Ten years’ wages I took in that one day. Ten years! And all in gold.’ The sergeant looked out of the corner of his eye and saw the thin-faced boy sitting on the edge of his seat. ‘Then there was the women. Why,’ he shook his head as if unable to believe his own memories, ‘those women couldn’t get enough of us. Two, three, even four to a man we had. Did everything for us, they did, fighting each other for the chance to do our laundry or cook our meals, and I don’t think I need to tell you what other favours they were happy to bestow.’ He turned and winked at the thin-faced boy. ‘You want to come on over, old son? That drink of yours looks just about finished to me, and I got plenty to share around if you fancy a little sharpener.’

  The thin-faced boy moved closer. Jack looked him over. He did not recognise him, but that was not so unusual. All manner of flotsam and jetsam washed into the ginny. The boy looked half starved and a little simple. A perfect recruit for Tate if ever Jack saw one, and he shook his head as the younger boy took a seat at the recruiting sergeant’s table.

  ‘Good lad.’ Tate welcomed the newcomer with a warm smile and pushed his own half-quart of gin in front of him. ‘Don’t you fret. You just sit there and listen. I ain’t going to slip you a coin when you ain’t looking. We don’t need to do that any more.’

  The boy took the drink, his eyes darting around as if he was expecting someone to snatch it off him. He looked like a cornered mouse.

  ‘Course, you don’t need to go all the way to bleeding India to make some rhino. Now then, Jack-o. How much do you think you get just for joining up?’

  ‘Dunno, Sergeant.’ Jack could not help but smile. He knew that Tate was really talking to the latest addition to his table, but he was happy to play along.

  ‘You might want to sit down, Jack-o, my lad. Four pounds, that’s what we give you just for attesting.’ Tate glanced at the simple-looking lad. ‘That means signing up,’ he explained, not sure the boy was following. ‘Four pounds! Can you believe it? And that’s not all. You get a shilling and a penny every day, and we feed and clothe you and give you a bed. What a lark, eh!’

  ‘Sounds good, Sergeant.’ Jack wanted to laugh. Tate was laying it on thick.

  ‘Good! You lot don’t know you’ve been bloody born! It weren’t like that in my day, I can tell you. Damn easy you boys have it. But that’s progress, I suppose.’ Tate shook his head as if unable to believe how fortunate the Queen’s new recruits would be. ‘And progress is what you boys can look forward to. Why, in a year or two you could all be sergeants like me! Can you believe that, lad?’ He reached out and slapped the simple-looking boy on the arm.

  The boy laughed, then gulped down his gin.

  Tate chuckled and pounded him on the back. ‘Good lad, you get that down you. There’s plenty more where it came from, and only the best for you. Why, I don’t think I have ever seen a finer bunch of boys in all my born days. I reckon you lads could even be officers one day. You fancy that, Jack? You would outrank me! I would have to call you sir!’

  It was Jack’s turn to laugh. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘So then, Jack-o, what do you say? Is it time to break your ma’s heart and come with me and these four bonny lads?’

  ‘Not this time, Sergeant.’ Jack glanced anxiously towards the bar. He saw his mother glaring in his direction. She would not approve of him lollygagging with the sergeant, even though he was one of her best customers.

  ‘Well, you knows where to find me when you change your mind.’ Tate seemed happier now that he had his fourth recruit. He earned a guinea for each one that passed the army’s medical examination. Four recruits would turn a tidy profit, even taking into account the gin he had bought to bring them to his table. ‘The Mitre and Dove on the corner of King Street and Bridge Street over in Westminster. You reckon you could find it, Jack-o?’

  ‘Reckon I could.’ In truth, Jack had no idea where it might be. He knew the rookeries as well as he knew his own skin. Outside of their narrow alleys and packed streets, he would have no clue.

  ‘I’m there most days. But don’t let your head get turned by the cavalry sods. A good boy like you don’t want to be in the bleeding cavalry. Twice the work it is, looking after a bloody horse as well as yourself.’ Tate considered Jack through narrowed eyes. ‘No, it’s the infantry for a smart young man like you, Jack Lark. So you come and find me when the time is right.’

  ‘Jack, get your bleeding arse back over here.’ Jack’s mother had a voice as loud as a docker’s, and it cut through the background hubbub like a good knife through tripe.

  ‘Off you go, Jack-o. Do as you are told, I know how it is. But I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Jack nodded and went to answer his mother’s summons. He liked Tate’s certainty. He fancied himself in the scarlet and gold. Mary would be unable to send him away if he turned up with a set of chevrons on his arm.

  It was a pleasing notion, and Jack could not help but smile even as his mother scowled as he dived back behind the bar. It was a fine dream and one that had already sustained him through his darkest hours. One day he would be a redcoat. Then Lampkin had better look out.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ He snapped out the litany of his trade, drifting back into the routine of pouring drinks and taking pennies. But his mind was far away, picturing the day when he would walk back into the gin palace dressed in the full finery of a sergeant in the service of the Queen.

 
Chapter 3

  Sir Humphrey Ponsonby looked across at his son before skipping deftly around a puddle. ‘How are you feeling, my boy?’ He stifled a belch by raising a gloved hand to his mouth.

  ‘I’m fine, Father,’ Edmund Ponsonby answered, forcing himself to swallow the sour gullet full of vomit that he had come close to depositing on the macadam road beneath his boots.

  ‘Good boy. Now, I must warn you.’ Sir Humphrey weaved closer to his son, his stick waving in front of him as he gestured at the houses pressed close on either side of the road. ‘This is not the sort of part of town I would expect you to visit on your own. It is as foul a den of iniquity as you will find this side of Southwark. Yet I felt it was an essential part of your education. If you are to take your place in society, then you must learn more about the wider world in which our society sits. I consider this as much a part of your education as whatever it is you learn at that school of yours.’

  Edmund was barely listening. Instead, he was gawping at a pair of young girls hurrying along, their bare heads an indication of their employment. One caught his eye and blew him a kiss before rushing past, her skirts lifted high above ankles encased in faded pink silk stockings.

  ‘Whitechapel is no different from any of the other rookeries that plague the city.’ Sir Humphrey carried on with his lecture, only pausing to smile as he saw the direction of his son’s gaze. ‘We shall not venture in far. The place is full of robbers, cut-throats and thieves, and even I should be lost within minutes. But at this hour we should be reasonably safe. Most people will still be sober, and we are too early for the drunk to have started a ruckus. We shall take just a taste of the atmosphere; I know a place that should suit us admirably, one that is listed in The Swell’s Night Guide, a book I heartily recommend you read.’

  Sir Humphrey reached across and laid his arm protectively around his son’s shoulders. He put his lips close to the boy’s ear, his voice hushed. ‘I shall be honest with you. I should not be brave enough to venture into such area once the light has gone.’ He glanced upwards. The day was grey, the sky the colour of smoke, but it was not yet four in the afternoon and he felt reasonably confident escorting his son into the fringes of Whitechapel. They had enjoyed a fine luncheon at his club before taking a hackney carriage to Bishopsgate. From there they had walked, picking their way through the side streets that led in the direction of Petticoat Lane. ‘I fancy we shall be safe for a while longer. I would suggest that you keep your wits about you and look sharp.’